“I love you, Kong, and I don’t know to say except that I can’t be with you and it’s breaking my heart, just as it’s breaking yours. The wind chill factor feels like icy serrated steel 89 or 90 stories above Manhattan in the dead of winter with snow on the streets, and little me wearing only a sheer white evening dress. But I’m not thinking about my physical comfort or how soggy and stinky your palm feels against my skin, but how you must be crying in your heart, and how similar our bond is to the one Jessica Lange had with that guy in the ape suit in Dino de Laurentiis’s 1976 crap-level Kong film. It’s the same sentimental shit, basically, and all I want to to is let go and let the tears run down my cheeks.”
